


Lovesick

by AdelaideArcher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideArcher/pseuds/AdelaideArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus believes he is dying. Madam Pomfrey has a different diagnosis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N None of this is mine; it all belongs to JKR.

As always, a huge thank you to my wonderful betas Hikorichan and Tychesong.

****  
  


The Great Hall rang with the voices of hundreds of adolescents, all eager to discuss the happenings of the weekend that had just finished. Dinner was nearly over and the students were restless. Professor Severus Snape sat at the staff table next to the new Arithmancy teacher, Professor Hermione Granger. Professor Granger’s hands waved animatedly as she talked about her weekend with the Moron Twins, as he liked to call Potter and Weasley, despite having gained a modicum of respect for Potter, at least. Severus sneered as he watched Professor Granger’s hair fly about. _Honestly, can’t the woman control that insane hair? It’s practically touching my face. Forget that, it is touching my face!_

The surprisingly soft locks brushed gently against his cheek. Suddenly, Severus’s heart was pounding and his hands were sweaty. He felt cold and clammy, yet conversely hot and sweaty all over. As Hermione glanced over at him, her tale apparently finished, he felt the fever rise and his face flush.

“Severus, are you all right?” Hermione inquired. _Interfering witch. Why wouldn’t I be all right? I’ve just got a cold!_

“I am perfectly fine, thank you. I suspect I may be developing a virus. A dose of Pepper-Up will sort me out in no time, I am sure.”

Severus tried to recall the timeline of his virus. It was a very odd sort of illness indeed, coming and going with no discernable pattern. Last week, he had begun to feel the faint beginnings of the virus. At lunch, when Professor Granger - Hermione, as she insisted - sat down next to him, he caught a waft of her scent and his chest lurched. He’d not thought anything of it at the time. The next day in the staff meeting, his heart had thumped madly in his chest while Professors Flitwick, Granger, and Longbottom argued goodnaturedly about which one of them had awarded the most house points.

Later that same day, whilst teaching his third year potions class, he’d heard one of them whispering about how difficult Arithmancy was. At that exact moment, he’d felt his heart thumping vigorously once again. He was starting to be a touch concerned. Surely, surely his heart wasn’t going to give him grief now?

The weekend had been much better. Not being on duty, he had escaped to the Malfoys’ house. Narcissa took great pleasure in providing him with every dish he could ever remember expressing a liking for, and Lucius, as usual, produced the very finest of Elf-made wines over dinner, followed by a twenty-five-year-old single malt firewhisky in front of the fire. His heart had behaved itself beautifully, maintaining a steady rhythm throughout the weekend. The only time it had faltered was during a discussion with Narcissa about Draco and Astoria’s upcoming wedding.

“Severus, darling, don’t you think it’s time you settled down? Found a wife? I know lots of lovely women whom I’m sure you’d like. Why don’t I organise a little dinner for you? You must be lonely in that dungeon by yourself.”

“Narcissa, the last time you tried to set me up, it was with a horse-faced little bitch who took great pleasure in imagining in vivid detail all the unsavoury doings I must have got up to in my Death Eater days, and then tried to lecture me about drinking too much coffee. You’ll forgive me if I’d prefer to remain comfortably single, able to imbibe in whatever beverages I please, while doing my utmost to forget twenty years of my life!”

Severus took a gulp of tea (“no coffee in the afternoon, sweetie, it’s so bourgeois”) in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

It was Lucius’s arrival and the subsequent change of subject that finally allowed Severus’s heart to settle down. The matter was not referred to again, and Severus relaxed once more, thoroughly enjoying the rest of his stay.

He returned to Hogwarts feeling much more mellow and quite sure that whatever this little bug was, he was over it now. But then, in the Great Hall at dinner, his heart began pounding loudly, terrifyingly, in his ears. He could barely concentrate on what Hermione was saying to him - something about his weekend, and the Malfoys, and her weekend at Grimmauld Place with Potter and Ginny Weasley, and Ron Weasley had been there too, the buffoon. At that point, Severus felt very ill indeed. His heart was racing, his stomach lurched, and his hands shook.

He held on for another few minutes, then excused himself to Hermione, who looked at him with concern.

“I must go -- potion -- Stasis Charm might not hold…” he babbled. Once outside the door, he leaned against the wall, the cool of the ancient stones soothing his cheeks. He was starting to get worried. His heartbeat slowed and he began to calm down.

The door to the Great Hall opened and Madam Pomfrey came out. “Severus, you’re coming with me,” she said in her no-nonsense way. Severus stood still. There was no way Madam-five-foot-two-inches-Pomfrey was ordering him about like an errant first year!

“Now, Severus. Don’t be tiresome; you’re not well and I am going to examine you whether you like it or not.”

Grumbling under his breath, Severus followed Madam Pomfrey to the hospital wing, rather like an errant first year.

“Right, tell me about your symptoms. And don’t tell me you’re ‘perfectly well, thank you very much, Poppy’. It’s obvious there’s something going on.”

“I really am perfectly well,” Severus began, not really believing it himself. “But every now and then my heart races and I can feel it pounding in my chest. But I am sure it is nothing that you need worry yourself over, Madam. Give me some Pepper-Up and I shall be about my business.”

“Hmm.” Madam Pomfrey picked up her wand, and began to cast diagnostic spells. “Hmmm. Interesting. Hmm. Oh my goodness…” Her expression was serious as she interpreted the results.

_I’m dying,_ thought Severus. _I’m fucking dying. I’m fucking going to have a heart attack and die on the floor of my fucking potions lab and some fucking student is going to discover my fucking body. This is it. Look at Poppy’s face. She doesn’t know how to tell me, but I already know. I’m fucking dying and I never got to shag Hermione._

__

Severus jumped. He had no idea where that rogue thought had sprung from. Shag Hermione? He didn’t even particularly like her! Hermione, with her big brown eyes like the richest espresso; her creamy skin, looking so soft and velvet; her rosebud mouth - _rosebud mouth? What the fuck, Severus?_

All right, so what if he did like Hermione? He was bloody well dying of a horrible heart condition anyway. He’d be blue and cold, and he was pretty damn well sure that Hermione wasn’t into necrophilia. No, better to accept his fate: cold in the grave while Hermione turned out little bawling red-haired babies by the dozen with that gormless half-wit Weasley.

“...and chamomile tea.” Poppy finished with a smile. Severus realised he hadn’t heard a word she had said, but surely chamomile tea wasn’t a cure for cardiomyopathy?

“What about chamomile tea, Poppy? Surely if I’m dying anyway I don’t have to drink that hippogriff’s piss?”

Poppy chuckled. “Dying? Where on earth in all of that did you get dying from? Severus, listen carefully: your heart is fine. Your blood pressure is normal. Your pulse is a little high, but that’s to be expected with panic attacks.”

“PANIC ATTACKS? I am not having panic attacks! I was a spy for two insane megalomaniacs for twenty fucking years and I barely raised a sweat! Bellatrix bloody Lestrange herself cast the Cruciatus on me just for pleasure every second week and I laughed in the face of danger! You are mistaken, Madam.” Severus drew himself up to his full height of six foot two inches.

“I am a man of action, a man of decision. I do not have ‘panic attacks’!”

Severus stalked indignantly towards the door. He paused, and turned.

“What, in your humble opinion, is causing these alleged panic attacks?” he sneered quite magnificently at Madam Pomfrey.

Madam Pomfrey twinkled up at him like a tiny mad beardless female Dumbledore.

“Oh Severus. It’s obvious. You’re in love with Hermione Granger.”


	2. Chapter 2

A/N None of this is mine; it all belongs to JKR.

As always, a huge thank you to my wonderful betas Hikorichan and Tychesong, and to the lovely Melody Lepetit, cheerleader extraordinaire!

I’ve been blown away by the response to this little fic - thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

****  
  


Hermione studied Severus as he stalked out of the Great Hall. She was starting to worry about him a little; he was acting very strangely lately. She decided to go after him to make sure he was all right. She pushed her chair back when she noticed Madam Pomfrey bustling out of the room. Hermione turned her attention back towards her musings; Poppy would certainly ensure that Severus was looked after.

Hermione had been somewhat nervous when she returned to Hogwarts to teach. It wasn’t the thought of the students that bothered her; nor was it the prospect of being away from her friends and family for months at a time. In fact, that had been rather a selling point in the school’s favour. Her parents were still in Australia, Harry and Ginny were engrossed in their small son, and Ron -- well, Ron had never really forgiven her for breaking up with him five years previously. No, the thought of some time away from them all, time to teach and research and read, was quite enticing. However, she was still nervous.

It was only after dinner on her first night, a few days before the students arrived back, that she realised the reason for her nerves: Professor Severus Snape. The Professor-Who-Lived, as the press had, not terribly wittily, dubbed him. Hermione had never quite recovered from the knowledge that she had left him for dead in a veritable lake of his own blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. Even knowing that he recovered because she had insisted that someone go to retrieve his body immediately hadn’t assuaged her guilt. Madam Pomfrey, over copious amounts of tea, explained that had Severus been left in the shack for another hour, the preventative antivenin potion he invented and imbibed daily as a precaution would have been in vain. Hermione’s insistence that had saved Severus’s life.

Which, to be frank, didn't make facing him over roast lamb any easier.

Neither did the fact that Hermione was now an adult. A grown woman, who had put aside childish boys who were only interested in Quidditch and a quick grope, in favour of grown men. After her breakup with Ron, she discovered that her taste in men ran towards the slightly exotic: dark hair, dark eyes, furrowed brows, a large nose. She put this down to her youthful infatuation with Viktor Krum, and thought no more of it.

Thought no more of it, that is, until that first dinner at Hogwarts. It was quite a shock to discover that her old Potions teacher had all of the aforementioned attributes, with an added lethal weapon: his voice, all dark chocolate wrapped around coffee beans. That voice, like the butter-soft leather and smoky tobacco of a well aged cognac, when he murmured her name, "Miss Granger." She'd been ten different kinds of an idiot to think it would be any better if he used her given name. Now, whenever he called her “Hermione," her toes curled and her pulse quickened. In short, she had quite an impressive crush on Professor Snape.

During the next few weeks, as they chatted over the teacups, her crush had developed. Professor Snape had changed after the war. Oh, he was as snarky and unapproachable as ever, but the vitriol was no longer there. Now that he no longer had to pander to the Death Eater families by openly favouring their children, he was able to pander to himself by openly favouring those who were good at potions. Hermione overheard quite a few conversations involving Gryffindor students who were reasonably talented potioneers, and managed to convince herself that she was only a little jealous of the approval and house points bestowed upon them by Professor Snape.

It wasn’t that she needed his approval. Her self-worth didn’t hinge on receiving one of his terse nods, or a quiet, “Well done, Miss Granger.” It would be nice, that’s all. Nice to know he appreciated her intellect. Nice to know he noticed her, beyond the nervously-babbling woman sitting next to him at meals, and more than nice to know if he returned her feelings.

How did she feel about Severus? Obviously, she liked him. She had learnt to see past the sarcasm and caustic wit to the genuine man underneath it. She liked that he willingly brewed potions for Minerva’s arthritis and Filius’ asthma. She enjoyed the time they spent chatting at meals. Admittedly, Hermione did the majority of the chatting, but his responses had grown from grudging one-word answers to thoughtful, interesting responses. Her immense intellect was challenged by his, and he had the advantage of age and experience. Their interests were both mutual and diverse, from Muggle politics and social reform to the uncharted uses of okra as a gelatinous thickening agent in medicinal potions.

And of course there was her physical attraction to his oft-maligned appearance. Once, in the staffroom, she had seen him from behind without his billowing robes. The view of Professor Snape’s remarkably fine arse had fuelled quite the fantasy in the privacy of her rooms that night, and many a night since. His scent, too -- sandalwood, well-worn leather-bound books, log fires, and a hint of spearmint, not to mention new parchment and freshly mown grass -- was highly, worryingly reminiscent of her first, and thus far only, encounter with Amortentia.

Hermione’s musings were interrupted by a gentle tap on the shoulder from Minerva.

“Hermione, dear, why don’t you come up to my rooms. I’ve a new bottle of Laphroaig Fire Single Malt, twenty-five years old and all the better for it. Poppy and I thought we’d give it a test run. Why don’t you join us?”

“Thanks, Minerva; I’d love to. But Poppy’s just hurried off after Severus…”

“Oh, she’ll only be a wee minute with him; she’ll come up when she’s finished.”

Hermione followed the Headmistress up to her somewhat palatial suite of rooms (“The re-painting I had to have done! Albus could be quite bizarre at times.”). She stifled a chuckle at the thought of what her teenage self would have said about the idea of a girls’ night with Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

Minerva and Hermione sat on the comfortable chairs in front of the fire in Minerva’s living room. Minerva tucked her legs up, reminding Hermione of a cat, and began to ask about the Potters. Hermione had just told Minerva of her suspicions that Harry and Ginny were thinking about a sibling for little James, when Poppy arrived, chuckling a little and giving Hermione an odd, speculative look. The conversation continued, however, and she let it slip her mind as she answered Minerva’s query about Ron’s love life. “No, he’s still single, and honestly, he’s such a child that I’m sure he’ll be that way for a long time yet. He’s having fun working his way through the groupies,” she replied.

The firewhisky flowed freely as the three women gossiped happily about their mutual acquaintances. “So, Hermione, you must tell us,” tittered Poppy, after her third glass of the admittedly excellent whisky, “if there is a man in your life.”

Hermione blushed. “Not exactly,” she murmured, taking a large gulp of whisky, spluttering slightly. She, too, was on her third tumbler.

“Ah-hah! There is someone!” Minerva seemed a little too excited by this revelation.

“It’s hopeless. He’ll never like me, and I really like him, and he’s got such a good arse, and he’s really funny, which is strange because I used to be so scared of him and oh, he can stir my cauldron any time he likes…”

Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified at what she had said. Minerva and Poppy exchanged triumphant glances. Minerva chuckled. “Och, my dear, if I were fifty years younger I’d be elbowing you out of my way. He’s a fine figure of a man, indeed.”

Mortified, Hermione couldn’t control her blush. “I don’t mean who you think I mean,” she stammered, trying to marshal her thoughts through the whisky-induced haze.

“Who do you think I mean, then?” Minerva asked.

“Professor Snape, of course.”

“Of course,” smiled Minerva.

Poppy joined in. “Yes you do, Hermione. You do mean Severus. How could you not? The man is sex on a stick, and that voice,” slurred Poppy, “that voice could charm the knickers off a nun. You’re a lucky woman, Hermione.”

“Whatever do you mean, Poppy?” asked Minerva.

“Why, Severus and Hermione. She’s a lucky lucky girl.”

Hermione was confused. “Why, exactly, am I lucky, Poppy?”

Poppy twinkled blearily at Hermione. “Oh Hermione. It’s obvious. Severus is in love with you!”


	3. Chapter 3

Another enormous thank you to my betas and cheerleaders, Hikorichan, Melody Lepetit, TycheSong and Dragoon811.

You know none of this is mine :)

****  
  
  


Severus could barely get his breath back after Poppy delivered her little bombshell. In love? With Hermione Granger? Hardly. It was a big leap from thinking she was utterly shaggable to being in love with the woman! Poppy was getting old; clearly her mind was going. It was quite sad, really. Luckily she was still perfectly capable of curing the little troublemakers of whatever ailed them, but otherwise it was clear that age was catching up with her.

He was rather more concerned with the difficult question of how to rid himself of his -- partiality -- towards Hermione. He thought back a few years, to when she had been his over-achieving, over-enthusiastic, immensely annoying student. Contrary to popular belief, Severus had never minded teaching. It had only been once Harry Potter arrived at the school that an enjoyable career with good perks had become a living hell. Arrogant little tosser, looking exactly like his arrogant little tosser of a father. And his friends! That berk Weasley, not as creative and funny as the twins, or as charming as Bill; not as rugged as Charlie or as pedantic as Percy -- wait, that was a good thing -- but every bit as sycophantic in Severus’ opinion as Black had been to Potter senior. Granger was almost the worst, though, with her immense intellect channelled solely into “helping Harry” (God, he could practically hear her irritating voice now) rather than producing the work he _knew_ she was capable of. Instead, he was forced to mark foot after foot of regurgitated textbook. He vividly remembered the way his heart sank when he heard the brash Gryffindor voices of Potter’s year outside the Potions classroom. The more time he spent with Granger, the more she had annoyed him.

Severus smirked. He knew exactly how to get over his little problem. _Familiarity breeds contempt_ , he thought smugly.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Hermione. A word, if you have a minute?”

“Of course, Severus.” Hermione sat back down in her chair as their colleagues shuffled out of the staff room after an interminable meeting.

“I find myself in need of assistance. I am in the process of redeveloping the Blood Replenishing Potion. I have a theory that the addition of a miniscule amount of firewhisky will thin the potion, thus allowing it to be absorbed into the bloodstream in a slightly more timely manner.” Severus paused, and Hermione nodded encouragingly.

“That seems plausible. I remember Molly Weasley telling me once that when Arthur was bitten by Nagini, he lost blood more quickly than the healers could replenish it at one stage. And when you --” She stopped abruptly, her previously animated face blanching.

“Hermione, stop. Don’t torture yourself. You thought I was dead; you were in the middle of helping Potter defeat the Dark Lord, and for Merlin’s sake, you were eighteen years old!

“Make no mistake: I would be dead if you hadn’t forced Poppy to retrieve me from the shack. I’d taken the antivenin, but as was the case with Arthur, it was the blood loss that would have killed me if I hadn’t been found in time. I don’t blame you for leaving, but I do thank you for making sure I was found.”

Hermione nodded. She swallowed hard, then asked, in a slightly too brittle tone, ”So, what did you need my assistance with?”

“Arithmantic calculations. It’s not my strongest suit, and there are so many variables in body weight, gender, age, general health, muscle tone -- all the usual things. I need calculations on all of the above, with varying amounts of firewhisky. Ideally, I’d like to narrow it down to three potion strengths: male, female, and child. That’s where your skills come in.”

****  
  


Severus was pleased with the outcome of his conversation with Hermione. Not only had she agreed to assist him with the calculations he required, but he had spent nearly half an hour in her presence without a single palpitation. _Take that, Poppy Pomfrey. 'In love" my arse!_   He was relieved, too, to have finally broached the touchy subject of Nagini’s attack and his own near-death experience. He’d been fairly sure Hermione was carrying a heavy weight of residual guilt about her part in his recovery, and he was hopeful that he had assuaged it somewhat.

After nearly a week of working with Hermione, Severus felt somewhat less smug. The potion was coming along nicely and he felt confident that his alterations would make for a more efficacious brew. His viral attacks (he refused, even in the privacy of his own mind, to call them panic attacks), however, had not improved. He never knew what would set him off, from the waft of her scent as she reached past him to cast runes over the cauldron, or the sight of her mad hair getting more and more unruly as she clenched her fists through it in frustration. _And this bloody chamomile tea is giving me the bladder of a seventy year old with a dodgy prostate. She’s got to notice how often I race off to the loo. Damn Poppy. I was perfectly happy thinking I was dying._

\---------------------------------------

Hermione had noticed Severus’ frequent dashes out of his private lab. She could only hope that it wasn’t caused by an aversion to her presence. She had initially been sceptical of Poppy’s announcement, but after her discussion with Severus about Nagini’s attack, she felt a little more hopeful that the mediwitch might be right. Severus’ frequent absences, though, were sending her self-confidence plummeting. _If he were really in love with me, surely he could stand to be in the same room as me for longer than twenty minutes! Well, I suppose I can stop wondering whether to invite him to dinner. As if I’d have the gumption anyway. What would I even say? “Severus, would you like to have dinner with me? And then shag me senseless? You must have noticed I can’t stop staring at your arse.” I don’t think so._

__

The more Hermione thought about what Poppy had said, the more she began to doubt it. After all, it wasn’t as if Poppy had been sober at the time. No doubt it was a combination of boredom and alcohol that had led the mediwitch to make such an outrageous observation. Minerva wasn’t much better. She had taken on, rather enthusiastically, Albus Dumbledore’s mantle of meddling in the lives of those around her. The twinkle was lacking, admittedly, but Hermione felt that the motives were purer on Minerva’s part.

But then, Severus had been so kind -- gentle, almost -- talking about the night he almost died. He seemed to be making an effort to talk to her, above and beyond their project. His lips quirked upwards in what could almost be termed a smile when she entered his lab. Hermione’s spirits lifted briefly, and came crashing down when she remembered how often he absented himself from her presence. No one needed the loo that often, surely. No one under seventy-five, anyway.

Hermione sighed. She had convinced herself that Severus liked her and was attracted to her, then a split second later that he barely tolerated her and only put up with her because of her Arithmancy skills. Her emotional somersaults were exhausting. _Bed, Granger_ , she told herself. _And no fantasising about Snape’s arse!_

****  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

As usual a huge thank you to the wonderful Hikorichan and MelodyLePetit for brilliant beta efforts. This chapter in particular has benefitted from their thoughtful suggestions. Also thanks to Tychesong and Dragoon811 for bouncing ideas around. House points to anyone who catches the Beetlejuice reference. None of this belongs to me; it's all JKR's.

 

Minerva McGonagall put her tumbler down with a decisive thud. “Poppy, we need to think of something. Those two are as blind as bats. We’ve known Severus since he was eleven years old and I’ve not seen him like this since Lily. In fact, he wasn’t quite this bad then, wouldn’t you say?”

Poppy nodded. “When he was fourteen, he was in the hospital wing every week with some ailment or other. If it wasn’t a cold it was a headache, and if it wasn’t a headache it was a stomach ache. There was never anything wrong with him physically; it wasn’t until I saw him with Lily in the library one evening that I realised she was the cause of his maladies--unwittingly, of course. Then all the trouble started and he gradually learnt to mask his emotions. I’ve not seen him like this since, but I recognise the signs.

“And it’s clear where Hermione’s affections lie, after that night a few weeks ago. It’s frustrating; they are perfect for each other and interested in each other. I thought when they worked on that potion together that matters might move forward, but nothing! I want to bang their heads together!”

Minerva nodded thoughtfully. Poppy’s words had given her an idea. “Poppy,” she began, “what if we forced them together? Away from Hogwarts. Somewhere isolated, so that they couldn’t escape each other?”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Severus stared in disbelief at Minerva. A breeze from the open window blew the tartan curtains across his peripheral vision, enraging him further. Bloody tartan everywhere. Being in Minerva’s office made him feel like he was trapped in a shortbread factory. He half expected a scottie dog to trot out with a dram of whisky in its mouth. _Wish one would. I could do with a drink right now. The woman can’t be serious._

“What do you mean that I’m to travel to Iona to interview a Quidditch Instructor?”

“Severus, you seem to have grasped exactly what I mean. I need you to travel to Iona to interview a potential Quidditch Instructor to fill in for Rolanda.”

“But Iona is miles away!”

“We have a little thing called Apparition. You may have heard of it.”

“Leave the sarcasm to me, please.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione gratefully accepted a piece of shortbread. “My grandmother’s recipe. Don’t ever let me catch you eating that mass-produced touristy rubbish!” Minerva rolled the final R with an impressive flourish. “And now, back to business. The latest Muggleborn has popped up in the register. She’s on Iona.”

“Iona, Minerva? And how old is she?”

“Her name is Fiona MacKinnon, and she’s eight years old. Her magic is quite pronounced. You know, Hermione, I do like this new system of telling Muggleborns about magic earlier. I’m sure it’s less traumatic than being told, in some cases, a few weeks before the child is packed off to Hogwarts. And I appreciate that you are willing to break the news to so many of them.”

“Well, I’m Muggleborn. I know what they’re going through. I’m happy to help. So, did you say you want me to go this weekend?”

“Yes, and you won’t be alone. Severus is going too. I need him to interview a potential Quidditch instructor. Poor wee Rolanda is still not well enough to travel, and with all due respect, it’s not a task I would leave in your hands, dear.”

“That’s fine. I’d say we’ll be home in time for dinner."

“Oh no, dear, did I not mention? Apparition to and from Iona is only permitted once daily, so you’ll need to stay overnight. And take your time on Sunday -- the island is very beautiful. You could pop into the distillery and pick me up a bottle or two of firewhisky if you felt so inclined.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Robes billowed threateningly as Severus paced the length of his office. Interviewing a potential Quidditch instructor was one thing, but in the company of Hermione? How on earth was he going to cope in her company for an entire weekend? And what sort of backward island trapped its visitors overnight every time they went there? _And as for this damned Quidditch instructor -- he’ll be young and fit and she’ll fall head over heels for him and I’ll be the pathetic old man sitting in the corner watching him paw at her and then I’ll have to watch them go upstairs together and --_

Severus clutched at the corner of his desk, heart pounding alarmingly fast. His head spun and the floor rushed up to meet him as the candles in their sconces dimmed to blackness.

_Fuck. I fucking fainted. That woman will send me to an asylum. I fucking fainted at the mere idea of her and that oafish philistine playing hide the snitch. It’s inevitable that she will be attracted to him. Look at her history. Krum. Weasley. Both Quidditch players. Both imbeciles. She’s got form. She can’t help it. So he’ll be chasing her tail while I’m beating my own quaffle. Bloody fuck._

Severus sat down heavily in his chair and cradled his head in his hands. _Sweet baby Voldemort. Poppy was right. I am in love with Hermione. He shuddered in disbelief. So what the fuck do I do now?_

Severus angrily swished his wand in the direction of the kettle. Sparks flew as the water began to boil. More bloody chamomile tea. He would sell his soul for a decent espresso.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione's hair crackled and swelled to twice its usual volume as she repeatedly ran her hands through it. Good lord, how on earth was she going to get through a weekend away with Severus Snape?

It was only Wednesday, but forewarned is forearmed, as her grandmother always told her. It was the work of twenty minutes to have two piles of clothing neatly stacked on her bed. One she mentally labelled "work trip necessities". The other was "Operation Seduction". It was depressingly small. One forlorn black lacy bra sat alone, waiting for the matching knickers. Knickers she hadn't bothered purchasing. _This is bloody ridiculous! I'm twenty-four years old and I own one borderline sexy bra. No sexy g-strings, no suspenders, no corsets… nothing. It's official: I'm failing seduction 101._

Hermione groaned loudly as she moved her bundle of clothes to the chair under the window. _Maybe I should just ask him out. Really, what’s the worst that can happen? Other than being completely mortified when he turns me down. But according to Poppy, he’s in love with me. Drunk Poppy. Half-a-bottle-of-Old-Ogden’s-finest Poppy. And I’m not sure that I entirely trust Minerva either, sending us away together like this when she knows exactly how I feel about him._

Still, her grandmother’s cliché echoed in her mind. Swiftly finishing her packing, Hermione searched for the catalogue from Kitten D’Amour’s wizarding branch. She barely knew her own tastes in lingerie, let alone what Severus preferred, so throwing caution to the wind she ordered from both the Madonna and the whore ends of the catalogue. _I just hope I haven’t jinxed myself!_

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. After lunch, Severus and Hermione met at the front door of the castle. Severus stalked grimly beside Hermione, who grew more and more apprehensive with each step. What had happened to their usual camaraderie? Why was she struggling to think of a single thing to say to him? Damn Minerva and Poppy and their meddling. She’d never been self-conscious around Severus until now.

“Do you have the coordinates?” Severus interrupted Hermione’s gloomy thoughts.

“Yes, and you?”

“Indeed. After you, then.”

Hermione landed safely and looked around. The island was beautiful, but quite a bit colder than Hogwarts. She shivered and wrapped her robes around her more tightly as Severus came into view with a virtually silent pop. She shivered again--not from cold this time--as she watched his robes swirl majestically around his long, lean legs.

The walk up the hill to their hotel was brief, and check-in straightforward. Her own deluxe room -- _thank you, Minerva!_ \-- with a log fire, luxurious bathroom and Hermione’s favourite, oversized fluffy white gowns, ensured that their visit would, at the very least, be comfortable.

“Should we meet in the bar after I see this family?” Hermione asked Severus. “I think I should only be two or three hours. And are you sure you want me to come to dinner with you and this Quidditch chap? It’s not like I’ll be able to contribute much to the conversation.”

Severus was torn. If he said no, then the Quidditch-clown would have no chance to sweep her off her feet. On the other hand, she would eat alone and he would be deprived of her presence.

He made up his mind. “No, do join us. I daresay I shall be in need of intelligent conversation after half an hour with -- what is his improbable name? Hamish McSporran?”

Hermione snorted. “I’ll see you in the bar, then.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Introducing Muggleborns to the wonder of the magical world was one of Hermione’s favourite parts of her role at Hogwarts. She vividly remembered the time Pomona Sprout had visited her family, bringing with her a lot of answers to the many questions Hermione and her parents had, but also creating a lot more confusion in some ways. Hermione agreed with Minerva that a Muggleborn witch or wizard was more suited to the task, since they understood the huge gulf between the two worlds.

“I must say, Mrs MacKinnon, that you seem much more comfortable with the idea of the magical world than my own parents were,” Hermione said, faintly surprised.

“Oh my dear, our folklore is full of the mystical and the magical. My own grandmother had the sight, not that it brought her any great joy. Some things are best unknown. And Fiona has been capable of strange and unusual things since she was a wee bairn.”

Mr MacKinnon nodded. “We didn’t know about the wizarding world, but I can’t say its existence surprises me. We islanders are much more attuned to the natural and the supernatural than city dwellers.”

Little Fiona’s eyes were enormous as she processed the wonders Hermione had told her of. She giggled softly as Hermione produced her wand and transfigured a pine cone into a fluffy yellow pygmy puff. “You can keep him,” Hermione told the delighted little girl. “He’ll eat your leftovers, but you’ll need to make sure he doesn’t drink from the loo!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione wandered into the bar after a quick freshen up in her room, still smiling slightly from her encounter with the MacKinnon family. Severus was there, glowering in a corner, but as yet there was no sign of their potential new colleague. Catching the eye of the bartender, she ordered a gin and tonic and joined Severus. She caught the tiny smile she had come to recognise, and relaxed slightly, hoping the awkwardness of the early afternoon was behind them.

“Did you have a successful afternoon?” Severus enquired.

“Yes, a lovely family. It was interesting; they were much more open to the concept of magic than any of the other Muggle families I’ve spoken to, my own included. Mrs MacKinnon seemed to think it was a Scottish, and more particularly an Ionan trait.”

The conversation flowed easily as they sipped their drinks and waited for the arrival of McSporran. Their discussion about Crodh Mara, the Highland fairy water cattle, was interrupted by a polite cough.

“Excuse me, Mr Snape. I’ve just taken a phone call from a Mr Hamish McSporran. Unfortunately he finds himself unable to join you this evening, and asked me to pass on his apologies.”

The man nodded pleasantly and returned to the front desk.

Hermione swallowed nervously. “Well, it seems it’s just us for dinner.”

Severus’ eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Indeed. I must confess that I am not displeased at the turn of events.”

Hermione smiled. “Nor am I. Shall we?”

She took Severus’ arm and they made their way into the adjoining restaurant. Hermione’s body tingled and she sent up a silent blessing to Hamish McSporran and his inexcusably rude (yet perfectly timed) dinner cancellation.


End file.
